


The Plum Incidents

by fouryearslater (CheshireCatLife)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Bucky Barnes's Plums, Crack, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, but it's mild i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 00:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslater
Summary: The first time, Steve thinks it's a one off.By the second, he's not so sure anymore.By the third, he's sure: Bucky Barnes has a dangerous, highly-emotional obsession with plums.What occurs in light of this are aptly namedThe Plum Incidents.





	The Plum Incidents

****_‘Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists, the ones who do call him the Winter Soldier. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years.’_

 

Assassin. Ha! The Winter Soldier, Steve has the delight of finding out, might be an assassin but more importantly, he’s a _pain in Steve’s ass_. They stare at each other, the TV staring blankly at them, the door to the common area hanging wide open as they puff their chests of like conceited alpha males. Even after fifteen minutes of this unnecessary standoff, neither of them are letting up, even despite the myriad of spectators that come and go, not a single one daring to interfere in this purposeless super soldier stalemate.

The Winter Soldier, more commonly known as Bucky Barnes, rolls the ball in his hand, relishing in the soft creak and clash of metal, watching Steve with knife-like eyes. He throws the ball in the air and catches it with a heavy thud, not daring to look at its glistening outer layer for fear he might have to take a bite.

A plum. Steve should have guessed, really. Ever since Bucharest, it seems that Bucky always has one on his person; Steve’s not really sure how he feels about that.

Steve, as stubborn as a bull, refuses to back down, furrowing his eyebrows and giving his best imitation of his ‘Captain America’ look, one which - although attempted - might appear a little more peeved than _imposing_.

“Buck, put the plum down,” Steve warns, staring at the plum like it’s a gun in a killer’s hands (with Buck, it probably is. Steve doesn’t want to ask).

“Nope. Not until you agree.”

“Come on! It’s not that important,” Steve complains realistically but, at Bucky’s glare, he withers rather quickly.

“Give in, Steve, you know you’ve lost.”

“I have not! It’s really not that important and anyway-“

“Stop!” Bucky orders, holding the palm of his flesh hand up in warning. “Continue that sentence and I’ll be forced to take dire measures.”

“Really? You’re _threatening_ me.” Steve stares in shock, mouth hanging open, and adds, “it’s _Snow White_.”

“Repeat what you told me,” Bucky spits haughtily, if only to remind Steve of his wrongdoings.

“Snow White was not that good, even when we first went to see it in the cinema,” Steve replies monotonously, like a child reciting a teacher’s reprimand.

“And are you going to take that back?”

“No. Seriously, it’s not that good. I’ve even re-watched it!”

“I warned you.”

“Buck-“ And that’s the moment it all goes into a frenzy. One moment, Bucky is throwing the glistening orb into the air. The next, he’s catching it single-handedly and pitching it…

Right at Steve’s unsuspecting face.

It lands with a sloppy splat and leaves a gaping silence in its wake.

Shocked into silence, Steve fights for words but is left gaping like a fish, mouth wide with incredulity. “You threw a plum at me!” He shouts, eyes wide, body stock-still.

“You dissed Snow White,” Bucky replies like the statement is nothing more than obvious.

Recovering from his paralysis, Steve throws his hands in the air, the bubbling pressure to argue welling up in his system - little Stevie Rogers is fighting to get out from under his counterparts skin. “And you just used the word dis!” (And, if anything, that was the worse of the two crimes here). All the while, Steve is attempting to wipe the chunky purple gunk from his face with the back of his forearm.

“That’s doesn’t matter! How can you not like Snow White?”

“You only like it because it’s nostalgic!”

“That’s not true,” Bucky argues, although it’s a blatant lie. It only takes Steve giving him pitying looks and folding his arms for Bucky to capitulate with “fine, you’re right. But!” He adds dramatically, “it’s still a good film. Even if it’s only because I’m feeling nostalgic.”

“I mean, I would watch it but…” Steve trails off, a mischievous smile taking over his features “ _someone_ just threw a plum at my face.” Steve shrugs, like the words mean nothing to him and approaches the sink to wash of the drying juice. Bucky watches him go, eyes trailing after him like a lost puppy.

“No! Can’t we just watch it once. Please,” Bucky begs, drawing out the a for an unnecessary period of time.

“No.”

“Please!”

“No!”

“Come on!” Bucky pauses, a snarky smile breaking out over his lips. He begins to chant: “Snow White! Snow White! Snow White!” It’s so childish that Steve almost breaks but his integrity is at stake her he has to-

“Captain Rogers, might I suggest the best course of action?”

“Sure, FRIDAY,” Steve replies dismissively.

“I believe the best course of action would be to watch the film _Snow White_. Would you like me to put it on?”

“See!” Bucky shouts (Steve is just glad that the chanting has stopped). “If the ceiling robot wants to do it, we _have_ to.”

“Buck-“ Steve tries but he knows it’s game over. He can’t ever deny Bucky, not after seventy years of ambiguous history, not after Bucky spent seventy years being told he couldn’t have anything he wanted, not after seventy years of being told what he wanted. He hates denying Bucky as much as hates when Bucky jokes about his time with the ‘brain-blending Nazi clowns’ (his words, not Steve’s).

“It’s not worth it.”

“It’s one hour! I’ve got a lotta time to fill here, pal. It’s not as if they think I’m safe enough to go outside.”

“Bucky you know it’s not like th-“

“Like hell it’s not. You know why I’m here. Outside equals death row for me so can we _please_ just watch Snow White.” Steve knows it’s a trick, knows that Bucky’s bringing all this shit up to get what he wants but Steve just can’t…

Just can’t…

Anyway, what’s an hour watching a film?

 

 

“That was shit!”

“Told ya so.”

“Shush.”

“I was right, though.”

“I was right, though,”

“I said shush!” Bucky shouts, scowling at the screen like its betrayed him. The TV covers over half the wall but the grainy picture in the middle (the dimensions so horrible that even the nonagenarians can’t take it) showing the ending credits is like a crime being committed right in front of his eyes.

A slight pause, a scrunch of his eyebrows and a wince. He focuses on the screen, squinting his eyes a little more before asking “but why does it look so _old_?”

“It is from the forties, Buck.”

“We’re from the forties! How does that even make sense?” Steve shrugs. “Well, now I’m disappointed.”

“Told ya.”

“Stop it!” Bucky wails, whacking Steve’s shoulder with enough force to crush any normal man’s bone.

“Ow! That hurt! First a plum, now this. All I did was tell the truth!” Steve huffs; Bucky just glares at him.

“You may have been right this time, Steve, but I promise you, throwing the plum at you was worth it.”

“But what did I do?!”

Bucky smirks, looking at Steve out the corner of his eyes and whispers “ _that_ was for everything you did when I wasn’t here.” (It’s better not to mention why Bucky wasn’t here).

“What did I do?!” Steve argues indignantly.

Bucky coughs patronisingly loudly before muttering “jumping out of planes without a parachute” under his breath, tagging another loud cough on the end.

“Who told you that?” Steve snipes as he starts.

Bucky smirks, looking Steve dead in the eye: “Natasha.”

“No!” Steve whines and Bucky doesn’t even have to ask why. Everyone knows that if there is betrayal within their ranks that they are perfectly allowed to fight it out (in safe parameters, of course) but with _Natasha_ , those rules do not apply. Not only is Natasha likely to beat the crap out of you (or at least, even if you win, fuck your mind up enough that you wish you’d never fought her in the first place) but will also make you regret dredging it up for the rest of your life.

Clint (after complaining to Natasha that she told everyone about his hearing aids, if only to help them understand why he was ignoring them sometimes, completely by accident) still finds ears (real or fake, no one knows but they’re oddly fleshy to touch) on his bed in the morning.

No one knows why she decided that _that_ was an apt punishment. No one asks.

“I hate you,” Steve mumbles, albeit entirely fake. Bucky just smirks: words aren’t necessary. “But,” Steve adds, giving Bucky his best ‘Captain America is disappointed in you’, “next time you’re annoyed, you don’t get to throw plums.” Bucky huffs a little but nods his affirmation.

 

 

_’Alright, I have a question for you, which you do not have to answer. I feel like if you don't answer it, though, you're kind of answering it, you know?’_

_‘What?’_

_‘Was that your first kiss since 1945?’_

 

The disaster starts at precisely three in the morning. A series of nightmares wakes Bucky (even if they bore him now with their repetitiveness. He’s woken more out of frustration that fear. But he’ll never get rid of the bone-deep shiver he has when he sees that _chair_ again). They are what form the insomniac zombie that is the Winter Soldier at three in the morning; a man who wanders aimlessly around the kitchen and living area, meandering and winding until he stands in front of the fridge.

Plums, he thinks. They’re a good midnight snack. One of the few he’ll accept, really. Sweet enough to be a treat, healthy enough that Hydra’s conditioning doesn’t come to bite him in the ass.

_The Asset eats things only of vital importance and nutritional value. The Asset will eat these. The Asset will comply. Won’t it?_

Unfortunately, ‘these’ consisted of a malformed wheat bar (or so he thinks) that were maybe just enough to keep him from insanity; they kept him weak enough to not kill his handlers whilst strong enough to defeat his enemies. It was simply one of the mechanisms used in controlling the animal they made Bucky into.

He rifles through the fridge, unhurried but desperate as the sole thought of plums begins to nag at him; eating something else now, he knows, would be difficult. Cravings, he recalls they are called: something he’s allowed to have now.

He hasn’t had cravings in a long time.

(Having wants rather than needs is something he is both adjusting to and enjoying).

He thinks back as he searches the fully-stocked fridge to the last time he bought a batch and he’s certain that it was only two days ago. No one else eats plums, he thinks. Or, at least, he’s never seen any of the others eat plums so surely they should still be there.

They are not there.

Regrettably for some, Bucky is irredeemably, incomprehensibly _mad_.

It’s three in the morning and James Buchanan _Fucking_ Barnes is _mad_. Iridescently so. So, in a fit of passion, he begins his three-in-the-morning rampage by slamming the fridge door before stalking silently (Winter Soldier, _activated_ ) towards Steve’s unsuspecting form, lying quietly in his bedroom. He tugs the door a little too hard, leaving one of the connections broken and the latch malformed and with his last breath, he growls - a hand still clutching the door - “where the _fuck_ are my plums, Steve?”

Steve wakes to the sound of his name, hissed under an unfamiliar voice’s breath, and a blade of light cutting through his room. No, that’s not right. He recognises that voice. That voice is…

_Bucky_.

“Wha-”

“Where are,” - “my fucking” - “plums,” Bucky growls again, stalking forwards and looming over the sleeping form of Captain America, dressed in his birthday suit (what? Isn’t Captain America allowed to sleep naked if he wants? It helps, sometimes, if he can’t feel the clothes cling to him: reminds him off days long past, a century long gone).

“Plums?” Steve mumbles groggily, his mind a muddled mess, brows furrowing, not yet noticing his complete lack of dress (neither of them really care but for the sake of decency, Steve should probably put some clothes on). “What about...plums?”

“Where are the plums, Steve?” Bucky asks threateningly, taking grand steps forward, his bare feet hitting the floor with soft thuds until he’s barely an inch away from Steve, nose’s almost brushing, breaths mingling.

“Plums? I don’t...I don’t know anything about your plums. Didn’t you just get new batch?” Steve finally wakes up a little and sits up, drawing the covers up enough that he’s only revealing his bare torso.

“Exactly, Steve. A new batch. And where are they now? Because I don’t spot any in the _fucking_ fridge.” Bucky’s eyes are wide, almost manic, as he glares at Steve, the faint pulse of fury pounding in the back of his mind (because who the _fuck_ took his plums).

“I don’t know, Buck. Does it matter? It’s just some plums.”

This is all it takes to light the fire (if only because it’s three AM and Bucky’s temper is short. It’s been a long few weeks). “Just some plums?! Do you not fucking understand that I can’t just eat any old shit, Steve?! Do you not remember that they _fucked_ with my head so _bad_ that I can’t even eat half the food in the fridge. Fucked with me _so bad_ that sometimes even just the _thought_ of food is enough to puke. So who, Steve- who the fuck took my plums.”

Steve stares incredulously at Bucky, feeling something between sympathy and pain, because what is this? They’re arguing about _plums_. Plums! Yet, Steve feels the pang of guilt he always does when Bucky brings up HYDRA, because it’s true, he can’t eat a lot of food anymore. He tries, often fails, because sometimes he just can’t stomach it. Or, sometimes, it’s fine but the anxiety afterwards is just not worth the effort.

“I don't know, Buck. Let me get changed and we’ll...I don’t know, see if there’s another batch around.” Bucky nods reluctantly and storms out the room, leaving a trail of welling indignity behind him (hiding it, poorly, behind a predatory veil). Steve sighs, takes a deep breath and pulls on some grey tracksuits and a white t-shirt, stretching upwards, cracking his knuckles along the way and with a final deep breath, trails after Bucky.

Bucky is pacing back and forth the kitchen area, all the cupboard doors open, as well as the fridge’s, as if to make a statement to Steve (and there’s no plums, that’s for sure). Steve sighs again, feeling like he’s going to put himself out with the sheer amount of of times it seems to have happened already this morning and starts searching some of the less obvious cupboard, crossing his fingers and hoping for the best.

Still nothing.

Someone’s definitely not hidden them, they’ve eaten them (all).

“Buck, do you want me to cook you something? We can get a new batch tomorrow and ask whoever ate them not to do it again,” Steve states surely, pretending that he doesn’t feel the flare of anger (guilt) that _someone’s_ made Bucky any more miserable than he already is. Bucky nods tersely and silently stalks to the kitchen island and sits on a stool, waiting for Steve to rustle something up.

Steve peers at the clock; it’s nearing half three in the morning and he’s in no state to make anything fancy but he bundles up as many fruit and vegetables as he can find and tries to make one of the simpler vegetarian recipes he’s read about on the internet recently (he’s been learning to cook properly for Bucky’s sake and is damn proud to say he’s getting pretty good at it).

It doesn’t take long to prepare a simple dish and Bucky’s delving in within the fifteen minute mark, leaving Steve to speak, picking at some of it himself, his sleep-addled mind abating his usual hunger. “So, you want to say why you’re up at all, Buck? It’s pretty early.” Bucky continues to chew and shrugs. Steve sighs again - this is going to be the death of him - and leans a little closer. “You definitely don’t wanna talk about it?” Bucky nods definitively; Steve lets it go.

After that, (and a session of Bucky puking into the toilet bowl that they’d both rather skip) both of them give up on the idea of sleep and decide to go on a run together, coming back just in time for the rest of the crew to be waking (stamina is enough to keep the run lasting for hours. The clock strikes seven when they return.)

Bucky’s wiping the sweat of his face when Sam walks in, his mouth wrapped around a plum, crunching into it happily. Red flares across Bucky’s peripheral vision as he marches towards Sam, eyes thinned into knives, his lips a crooked - yet entirely perfect - grin, falling more into the category of Cheshire cat than your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman.

“Where did you get that,” he asks, voice entirely flat - dead, even.

“Oh, I found them in the fridge yesterday. This one was in my room.” Sam, as the newest member of the group - although, he’d been here for just as long as Bucky - didn’t seem to be aware of the rule: you don’t take any old thing from the fridge. (Natasha will murder someone for taking her smoothies, Clint will kill a man for taking his breakfast pizza and Bucky, apparently, will most definitely kill someone for taking his plums.)

“You what?” Bucky spits, stepping so he’s nose to nose with Sam, teeth bared.

“I...I took them…from the fridge?” Sam says, pointing to the fridge as if that was the source of confusion.

“Did you not to think to ask if they were someone else's?” Bucky raises an eyebrow, giving his best version of the Captain-America-Is-Disappointed-In-You look, though it will never be quite up to par with the real thing (and unfortunately, as the Winter Soldier, it is far more threatening than disapproving).

“I’m assuming now that I should have.” Sam doesn’t apologise, he sees no reason to. It’s an easy mistake to make and an easy one to amend. “But we shared them out. I would have thought someone would have said if they were yours, man.” The red in Bucky’s vision grows to unmanageable levels as he steps away from Sam and inspects the others who have entered the room, all invested in the current drama between Sam and Bucky (but isn’t there always?).

“Who ate a plum?!” He snarls, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. Sheepishly, Tony puts his hand up first, followed by Clint - Sam puts his hand up just because he isn’t sure what else he should do, even though he still has half a plum in his mouth.

“There were six in that pack, fess up.”

“I’ve eaten two,” Sam fesses, shrugging, feeling no need to be dishonest (and if he can piss of Bucky whilst doing so, all the better).

“Two more, who was it.” Bruce puts a hand up as soon as he walks in the room at Tony’s vindicating point (though he has no idea what he’s admitting to).

“One more. Come on, hurry up.” There’s a pause, too long. Bucky’s glare turns to daggers and Steve, mind-bogglingly slowly, raises his hand.

Bucky eyes, sharp as lightning, flash to Steve. He stalks forward, feet treading silently against the sleek floor and he prowls. “You too?” Steve nods, faking confidence as he draws himself up to his full height (unfortunately, he’s still not taller than Bucky). “I didn’t know that was the last of them.”

“But you knew they were mine?” Bucky’s eyes are somewhere between betrayed and _apoplectic_.

Steve nods again but looks Bucky directly in the eye, surely stating “I did but I didn’t know how they important were for you. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

It’s at exactly that moment, just as Bucky’s about to forgive Steve (god, he does that too easily these days) when Tony decides to speak. “Is this really something worth arguing about, Barnes? They’re some plums; this isn’t first degree murder or anything.” Apparently, this is most definitely the worst possible thing that could be said at this point in time.

Especially to someone who has, in fact, committed first degree murder.

Stark does not survive the battle.

 

 

The next day - whilst Stark’s still in the infirmary for a knife wound that he definitely has not forgiven Barnes for but will not press charges for because in this house, it would be a nightmare if he did - Bucky is silently wandering the kitchen, his head drifting between guilt and contentedness, when Steve enters, a book in one hand and a pencil spinning on the other. Bucky notices within seconds that he’s mistaken and that Steve has a small notebook in his hand, one of the ones he used to like to draw in, back in the day. The smile on Bucky’s face is irrevocable: he may be fucked up but Steve has no right to throw away what he used to enjoy doing, seeing him doing it now is - well, great.

“Whatcha drawing?” Bucky asks, a familiar Brooklyn tilt falling back into place as the memories plunder through his brain. Steve’s head shoots up, surprised, as if someone had just thrown the past in his face (to be fair, Bucky probably has) and shamefully murmurs “nothing.” Bucky frowns, Steve used to always tell him what he was drawing, even if he would never show him - a point of embarrassment and stubbornness, Bucky assumed - and falls to Steve’s side.

“Come on, what is it, pal?” The Brooklyn tone seems to be throwing Steve off, reminding them of how they used to be - teasing, even a bit stoic, but within a silent bubble of comfort.

“It’s nothing. I’m serious.”

“You saying it’s nothing is what’s serious. Come on, what is it?” Bucky presses, trying to look over Steve’s shoulder but the notebook slams shut. “Is this because…” Bucky never ends the sentence, he doesn’t need to; it doesn’t even really have an ending but it does it’s job. Steve capitulates, whether it’s because Bucky’s silently referring to HYDRA, or their fractured friendship, or anything from the shit storm of the last century, Bucky doesn’t know.

Steve opens the notebook with the trepidation of an animal forced into an unfamiliar environment (and god, hasn’t Steve experienced that before) and shows Bucky for only a second before-

“Is that me?”

Steve nods.

“Wow.” There seems little more to say because even with only a glimpse, Bucky saw...god, a lot. Yes, a lot. He saw him, that much is simple but what lay underneath that is…

_Incredible._

“I was thinking of giving it to you as an apology for yesterday but that seemed a bit weird, to give you a picture of yourself and all and it’s not even all that accurate. I mean, you didn’t even look like that way back when and to try and draw you from memory-” Steve rambles; Bucky doesn’t hear what he says next because-

The picture was perfect. Not only in likeness but style and even if it was only small, it captured every detail on his face like Steve had it right there in front of him. “Steve…” he breathes, looking up at the man that was still fumbling for words.

Steve looks back down at him and suddenly the tension is unbearable. Bucky can’t stand looking at him but can’t look away because that look on his face...that’s….that’s… something that Bucky isn’t prepared for, something that he’s most certainly noticed, he’s an assassin, he sees these things but-

But he wants it _so fucking bad_.

Their lips draw together like magnets, snapping together only at the end when a sudden intensity takes over and they don’t know what else to do with it.

“Was _that_ your first proper kiss since 1945?” Their heads fling around to see Natasha leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smug grin plastered on her face. She shrugs at the confused looks (seriously, how had the _super assassin_ not even managed to notice she had come in). “Oh, I just came to say that there was something on the news. Due to a heat wave, certain fruits are not going to be stocked in the stores anymore, or not many, at least: plums are on the list.

Bucky still hadn’t gotten a new batch of plums.

“What?!” He roars, storming to go look at the Starkpad he leaves in his room, leaving Steve in the dust of his temper.

 

 

_‘And a semi-stable 100-year-old man’_

_‘How ya been, Buck?’_

_‘Not bad, for the end of the world’_

 

The stores aren’t selling plums. Oh god, the stores aren’t selling plums. Bucky starts to hyperventilate (he thinks, he doesn’t remember much of the following incidents) and Steve watches in horrid fascination as Bucky throws himself into the living room and into Steve’s lap, holding his arms tightly around Steve’s waist, like a dame back in the day.

“Are-” Steve begins but Bucky, face buried in Steve’s neck, beats him to words. “Don’t you dare ask that question. And don’t you dare mention this to anyone. This is a low point, okay? It’s not gonna happen again.” The words are muffled by the fabric covering Steve’s shoulder but the point gets across just fine.

“Okay,” Steve whispers, holding Bucky close like he might never get to again (he might not) and gently strokes his thumb up and down his lower back. “Have you eaten yet?” Bucky shakes his head. “You need to eat, Buck,” Steve chastises, sighing.

“Asset only eats when vital. Asset only eats the nutrients he needs,” Bucky says, more out of explanation than true belief.

“Oh, Buck,” Steve whispers, wrapping a hand around the back of his head and tugging him further into his shirt, now stroking soothing patterns into Bucky’s hair, hands knotting in tangled parts (he doesn’t dare mention that it’s gotten too long).

“I’m hungry,” Bucky tries to continue.

Steve just nods. “I know.”

“I want to eat,” Bucky pushes.

“But you can’t,” Steve says with more softness and understanding than Bucky has ever deserved (the infamously stoic Steve Rogers is finally revealing just a bit of himself, just for Bucky). “I’ll make you something, we can see how it goes down.” Bucky smiles and pulls himself away from Steve, straightening up and falling back into that 1940’s disguise of put-togetherness.

Steve picks himself up too, brushes himself off like Bucky had been a fine layer of dust and not a 260-pound super soldier (the arm, plus a muscle to fat ratio of a thousand to one, had basically designed the term ‘crushingly heavy’) and strode confidently into the kitchen; that look of determination is back on his face, the one he gets when there’s a task that can’t afford to be forgotten or cast aside. Bucky warms inside but gives Steve nothing but a half-arsed, flirtatious smirk before sitting himself at the island and watch Steve fastidiously chop vegetables and fry whatever the fuck is in that pan (because dear god, what _is_ that, Bucky thinks).

The cooking takes longer than expected but it’s almost enough time that Bucky’s sure his starvation will win out over his ‘rules’; he’s fasted for far longer than this before but it’s no comfort.

Steve sets it onto plates, one large and one small, giving Bucky the option. Bucky takes the small one (one step at a time, here) and brings the concoction to his mouth (even now, he isn’t really sure what it is).

He eats steadfastly but with a caution only an ill person can muster. He picks through bits and bobs until the plate’s clear and his stomach is full, a shocked - albeit small - smile on his lips as the lack of queasiness in his stomach. Steve smiles gently and takes his plate without a word, having already finished his own - he usually eats like a lion left to starve - and cleans the dishes one by one.

“You better, Buck?” Steve asks, turning around. Bucky nods solidly but curls in on himself, hating his dependence on Steve to keep anything down. Steve sighs out a quiet breathe but wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulder as goes back to his seat and lets Bucky rest his head on his shoulder, brushing gentle fingers over the flesh shoulder.

“It’ll be better soon, I promise,” Steve says, albeit futile - he can’t promise anything but he hell as will anyway. Bucky nods again, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath before peeling himself off the chair and going to sit on the sofa, swinging his legs onto the coffee table. He motions for Steve to follow - who does obediently, as always - and they sit side by side, arms brushing, as they turn on the TV and mindlessly watch some dodgy show on some dodgy channel.

Bucky slowly falls down the sofa until he’s practically on the floor and his head is resting on Steve’s arm. “I feel sick,” he murmurs; Steve just has to nod and runs his fingers through Bucky’s ever-tangled hair. “Badly.” Steve sighs and pulls Bucky up to his feet and quickly leads him into the bathroom, holding his hair back as he pukes into the white ceramic.

So much for holding the food down.

“I tried,” Bucky croaks desperately. “I really did-“ he apologises.

“And that’s all that matters,” Steve hushes, pulling Bucky’s hair into a ponytail and sealing it with a rubber band, moving his caring hands down to Bucky’s shoulders and massage the aching muscles with super soldier vigour. “You’ll be okay, Buck. You will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” They both know Steve can’t promise anything.

“And all because of some plums,” Bucky chokes as he laughs, bile spilling out of his mouth.

“All because of some plums,” Steve smiles, masking the pain behind smiling lips as he presses a kiss to the conjunction of Bucky’s neck and shoulder.

They move back to living room together - after Bucky has washed his mouth out with mouthwash, and Steve has braided his hair so it remains out of his face - and fall onto the sofa in synchronisation, relishing in the plush cushions that hadn’t existed back in the 1940s.

“You okay?” Steve asks, though the question is futile.

“For now.”

It’s always for now.

“Good,” Steve affirms, although all their words are practically a lie. But the more they say them, they believe, the more they may become true. And whether that works or not, it’s ingrained into their routine now and that in itself seems to make it true enough.

They’re getting better.

They really are.

Even if a bag of plums can set them back.

Plums, Steve wants to laugh, how the fuck did _plums_ become anything to do with anything. He smiles anyway.

 

 

_’He's fast. Strong. Had a metal arm.’_

 

When Tony gets out of the infirmary, it’s fair to say he’s pissed - and no, not drunk, like usual - _pissed_. It’s also fair to say that Bucky does not regret a single action he has taken. In fact, he’s rather pleased with the outcome.

Tony needed a knife to his stomach to give him a wake up call.

And yeah, Bucky knows it’s scary and a bit shit to stab someone in the stomach but hey, Tony’s gone through worse, so it’s okay, right? Tony disagrees, heavily, and storms up to Bucky with murder on his face and goes “revenge will be mine, Barnes.”

Bucky is not scared.

Until he is.

It’s six in the morning and Bucky has just returned from his run when, through the loud speakers installed for JARVIS, comes Tony’s voice. “Will anyone with the last name Barnes please make their way to the shooting range immediately. I repeat, will anyone with the last name Barnes please make their way to the shooting range immediately.” Steve groans beside Bucky before asking, “what the hell?” Bucky just shrugs and jumps off the stool at the breakfast bar, waving Steve goodbye before stalking to the shooting range, face wary and body tense.

“What the fuck?” Bucky whispers as he enters the room. A spotlight is trained on one of the targets, the rest of the lights switched off, except for another solitary one in a booth that illuminates the pistol - medium calibre, not shabby - that’s lying on the small desk, alongside a pair of headphones and some goggles.

Bucky does not need equipment. Someone seems to think he does.

“Barnes!” Stark gleefully shouts over the intercom. “I’m glad you could make it. Because, see, I’m still rather… _enraged_ over the whole stabbing incident and I was thinking, what could I do that would really, _really_ hurt back. See, hurting the Winter Soldier is quite hard. But then, I realised your weakness. And since we’re celebrating the returns of an assortment of fruits back to supermarkets, I’ve got a little treat for you.” With Stark’s words finished, Bucky stalks forwards until the gun is in front of him, as well as the lit target.

It’s then that Bucky realises just what Stark has done.

“No,” he breathes, eyes wide. “No, you can’t.”

“Shoot them, Barnes,” Tony hisses, no doubt smiling from the other side.

“Please, no,” Bucky begs, staring at the beautiful fruit in front of him.

“Shoot the plums, Barnes. Shoot them.”

“And what happens if I don’t?” Bucky argues stubbornly.

“The doors are locked. You’re not leaving until you shoot those plums, Barnes,” Stark threatens, leaving Bucky shaking with anger.

“Fine,” Bucky says, falsely aloof, lifting the pistol. His hands are shaking and for once, he’s not sure he’ll even be able to hit the plums. He takes the shot.

He misses.

The Winter Solider misses.

He’s fast, he’s strong, he has a metal arm and he fucking _misses_.

“Ooooooh!” Stark jeers, laughing. “The Winter Soldier _missing_ , this just gets more and more exciting.”

“Fuck off, Stark,” Bucky barks, raising his gun again and taking the shot. He doesn’t miss, because the Winter Soldier never ( _never_ ) misses. But he hits the targets and, oh god, isn’t that so much worse.

He can hear the tear through the flesh of the fruit and the final splatter of the juice on the walls, every sound right down to the infinitesimally small, including everything from the exploding crack of the core to the gentle rain of purple drops onto the cold, concrete floor.

Bucky flinches but pulls the trigger again, determined, shooting each plum through the heart with growing guilt and despair, ignoring Stark’s imprudent jeering. He shoots until there are none left, leaving only the gloop of wasted fruit on the tabletop on which they were sitting.

Bucky puts down the gun with a shaking hand and hears the door unlock with a click. “Man, that was cruel,” Clint complains as he walks into the room, holding a plum in his right hand. “Peace offering? And as Natasha puts it, a show that it was Tony and _only Tony_ that made up this scheme.”

Bucky narrows his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Clint apologises as he raised his arms, plum still in hand. “It _might_ be an apology for accidentally giving Stark a very good, but _extremely cruel_ , revenge tactic.” Bucky just smirks and takes the plum out of Clint’s surrendering hands and takes a large bite, like he used to from his food back when HYDRA had him, just to prove something.

Anything.

He’d lost his dignity nearly a century ago, he might as well throw that in people’s faces every now and then.

“Not forgiven,” he says maniacally and scurries out the room and back to where Steve is eerily staring at the screen, still looking a little shocked.

“Bucky!” he practically shouts, “are you okay?” He runs up to Bucky and looks at him like he’s checking for injuries.

“Holy shit, Steve, calm down.”

“But Tony, he made you-“

“It was plums, Steve. Nothing to get worked up over.” Steve raises an eyebrow at him, like a disappointed mother gives to her son.

“I thought,” Steve chastises, “that you thought plums were something _very_ valid to get worked up over.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “They are,” Steve goes to interject, “BUT! It’s not like there isn’t more. Yes, it pissed me off but Starks a bit of a bitch, isn’t he? I’ll live. Now, where’s my prize?”

“Prize?” Steve questions with a smirk, seemingly more relaxed.

“Plums, you dumbass. I get to eat as many as I shot,” Bucky says gleefully, skipping over to the sofa and plonking himself down, legs immediately folding on the coffee table, the embodiment of relaxed confidence.

“Your wish is my command,” Steve laughs, jogging to the fridge and rifling through the ingredients until he finds the (far too large) stash of plums. “How many did ya shoot, Buck? I wasn’t exactly countin’”. Bucky laughs at the odd tad of Brooklyn that has slipped into Steve’s accent but calls back with perfect memory, “14!”

“Holy shit, Buck. You might be running the stash dry.”

“Watch your language, Mr America! You’re supposed to be the epitome of politeness now, right? Can’t do with no swearing, can we?” Buck laughs but waves Steve over, all fourteen plums he has in hand.

“I ain’t gonna be able to eat these all anyway but it’s nice to shove it back in Stark’s face. Put him out a few pennies.”

“He’s a billionaire, Buck. I’m sure buying fourteen plums isn’t making him bankrupt.”

“Every little helps,” Bucky shrugs. Steve, without being able to hold it in, cracks up laughing. He feels a little bad, he knows exactly how it feels for people to be laughing at you because you accidentally made a reference. But Steve just can’t help it.

“What?” Buck asks, looking a little annoyed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve apologises, choking his laughs down. It’s just, when I went to the UK (mission stuff, you know), there’s this supermarket advert and they _always_ say that. It’s just cheesy, that’s all.” Bucky huffs but smiles a little, leaning into Steve and taking the bite of his first plum.

They sit in silence for a few moments before Steve whispers, “I’m glad you’re here, Buck.”

“Me too, punk.” Bucky smiles.

 

 

_’It always ends in a fight’_

 

Steve hears the sick thud of something hitting the ground before he sees anything. His shield is raised, protecting himself from the parade of bullets flying at him. His feet are planted steady on the corrugated iron roof, his spare hand holding a small pistol that is easy for firing at small range.

Steve calls out for backup, expecting an overeager Bucky to charge forward and kill these men in minutes (mission report: terrorist cell, shoot to kill, code red). He turns when nothing comes back; Bucky was by his side just a minute ago, shooting from behind Steve, using the protection of his shield for two of them.

“Bucky?!” Steve calls out again, over the rapid gunfire of another round being shot into men’s chests (Steve flinches, feels the guilt of every life, watches the blood pour but pushes on. He’s a soldier, this is his mission). “Bucky!” He calls again, panic rising in his voice when he pauses. He shoots one last man in the chest, carefully examining the backup group that are patrolling the ground when he sees…

Bucky.

Bucky fell. Bucky’s on the floor.

And oh god, he’s bleeding. His head has smashed into the concrete, with death-inducing consequences (but Bucky’s a cockroach, Stark’s words not his, and will survive anything: even the agonising probable brain damage that he’s just been hit with that his body might take months to heal. Steve hopes it will be quicker. Hopes he’s underestimated it all). Steve stares, agape, at the fresh wound, until he tumbles off the building himself, landing in a heap, but at least in a crouch, feeling only a slight strain in his muscles. Bucky is bleeding not only from his head but his torso as well, blood profusely spurting from the wide rip across his chest - it had gone through the kevlar, it gone through the _fucking_ kevlar.

Armed soldiers storm down the alley only seconds later and Steve is forced to fight them off, swinging his shield without finesse, only unbridled rage for his friends twitching body.

They’re all gone within two minutes; Steve leaves the fight then, Bucky in his arms, and ignores his teammates cries.

They win anyway.

Steve is let off the hook when they tell him that Bucky Barnes may really not have survived this time.

 

 

Bucky comes to it with an undignified groan just under two weeks later and a mind-shattering pain in his head. Alarms immediately start buzzing and through the small slits between his eyelids, he sees a frantic giant storming around like its the apocalypse. Bucky can’t see his expression but he can bet that it’s the ‘I’m Steve Rogers and you’re going to do exactly what I do because I’m a stubborn punk who won’t take no for an answer.’

“Captain Rogers, we’re going to need you to vacate the room,” Bucky hears above the screaming in his head. He knows it’s a nurse, it has to be, and Bucky just sighs at the implications.

“I’m sorry, madame, but this man is my best friend and I’m not going to-” Bucky scoffs because _best friend_ but it seems he did it a little too loudly because now that blonde giant is by his side with eyes as wide as the moon, worry shining through the hope.

“Bucky? Bucky, you awake?” Bucky tries to croak a yes but only managed a little noise that only Steve would percept with his preternatural hearing. “Bucky!” He calls out and turns, presumably to the nurse and says, “he’s awake, ma’am,” because even he knows that the sound was so small that any nurse would think Steve was hallucinating.

“Captain Rogers, if your _friend_ ” (see, even she knows) “is awake then it’s imperative that you leave. A lot is happening with his body, we’re going to need to help him and you can’t assist that.”

Steve huffs. “I’ve got medical training, ma’am. I can help.”

“Steve,” the nurse finally sighs, giving up any ruse of formality. “Let us do our job. Please.” Steve looks to the floor, evidently chastised and stumbles out the room like a dog with its tail between its legs. Bucky giggles a bit in his head (it even quietens the deafening ringing) and smiles, the twitch of his lips enough for a small wrinkle to appear on the corner of his mouth.

“Sergeant Barnes?” The nurse calls down to him, replacing Steve’s position. “Can you open your eyes for me, please?”

“Blurgh,” he gurgles, attempting to refute but his lips only opening a fraction. She giggles gently but hides it behind a frail hand, only a minute quirk of her lips visible. “Please try again for me, Sergeant,” she says, humour drained from her voice as she takes on a professional front. He attempts as much as he is able to and manages to just about open his eyes, even if it is still a little squinted. She smiles perfunctorily and begins the next step. “Can you tell me how bad your pain is? On a scale of 1-5, show me on your fingers.” It takes a gargantuan effort but Bucky holds up a solid two and lets his eyes close a fraction. She notes something down on her sheet and even through the delirium, he can see her write a clear 4/5. He’s not sure whether to be proud of her intuition or a little peeved that she thinks he’s lying.

I mean, he is but that’s not the point.

“Ok, thank you. I’m going to get the doctor in as soon as possible. That remote in your hand is the call button, press it if you need us. _Or_ ,” she adds pointedly, “if Captain Rogers finds his way in again.” Bucky wishes he could smile back at her as she leaves but finds himself exhausted just by the simple movement of his fingers.

Bucky’s memories are unstable (as always) but the last day or so (he believes) seems particularly unclear. He remembers…fighting. Yes, fighting and then…falling? No, that can’t be. Whenever he sees falling he sees-

_(A train, a hand, a shout and the barren cliffs rolling away from him, up into the sky)_

Internally, he sighs and tries to dig through the creaks of his memory and scavengers as much of a picture as possible. And, with all the information in his grasp, he realises his conclusion might be right: he’d fallen.

Well, shit.

 

 

The doctor checks in on him at least twice before Steve is allowed in the room again. When he is finally checked back in, he runs in like it’s a Hydra base and it’s about to explode with Bucky still inside. Bucky, at this point, is at least somewhat awake. His eyes are open and he can speak, even if with the smallest of voices and a pain that spikes up to what the nurse says is a five (he’d give it a solid four).

“Bucky! Are you okay? They haven’t been hurting you, have they?” Bucky huffs a laugh and shakes his head with a wan smile.

“Fine,” he croaks, letting his eyes fall closed for just a second in compensation. Steve sighs, looking down at him with pity. “I thought…I thought you were dead, Buck.” Bucky nods, a silent ‘I know’. “I…I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.” Another nod. “Thank you.”

“Til…the…end…of the…line.” It’s agony to say but it’s worth it for the gentle smile that overcomes Steve’s face.

“Yeah, ’til the end of the line.”

Steve continues to sit by Bucky’s bed side for hours, telling him stupid stories about the Avengers, or memories from back in the day (some that he remembers, some that he doesn’t). Bucky listens avidly but can’t help but doze off sometimes. Steve doesn’t seem to mind either, running a gentle hand through Bucky’s hair every time he goes back under.

Nurses and doctors are in and out, checking vitals, asking pain levels but predominantly leaving them alone. (Bucky predicts that Steve has assured them that if anything goes wrong, he can help. If Steve’s anything, it’s stubborn).

“You hungry, Buck?” Steve asks after a lapse of silent. Bucky smirks gently, feeling the pull of awareness for the first time since he’d been under. “Sure, pal. How about a few plums?” Steve looks down at him with a wary smile, playing all his emotions underneath the surface, only letting Bucky see what he needs to see. “Sorry, jerk, no solid food until you’ve got passed the mush stage.”

And all of a sudden, Bucky is totally, irrevocably awake. “What?” He croaks, staring Steve down like a Hydra man with a gun to his head. “You’ve gotta be shitting me, punk. I’m having a plum.” He tilts his head up snootily and waits for Steve to accept. Except he doesn’t, because he’s Steve (and Steve, if anything, is stubborn. Remember?)

Steve shrugs and leans back with easy grace. “No can do, Buck.” Bucky’s overcome with the urge to glare at Steve until they end up in some eerily long staring contest (who knew the super soldier serum made them have to blink less), one which Steve wins in the end - Bucky blames it on the current state of his health.

“But Steve,” he whines, opening his eyes until he’s at maximum ‘puppy eyes’. Steve, however, does not acquiesce. He’s practiced, he knows exactly what he’s doing; Bucky may look cute but Steve will never give in.

“Nope. No, no, no, no, _nope_.”

“Please.”

“Nope.”

“Come on! Pleeeeaaaaaseeeeeee.”

“No can do, pal.” Bucky huffs and folds his arms petulantly, scowling like a child. Steve ignores this too; he knows that a semi-stable 100-year-old man will never coax him into giving in. The silence afterwards permeates thickly as Bucky keeps up the charade of child-like anger whilst Steve acts the ever-loving parent that won’t give the child the ice-cream they’ve so desperately been asking for.

It’s all interrupted, though, by the unexpected arrival of one unwelcome individual. “Robocop! How’s life treating you? I brought you something!” Tony Stark shouts, not only paining Bucky’s sensitive ears but Steve’s too. He strides in with all his usual bravado and brandishes a beautiful object. A plum: oddly shiny, Bucky notes, but a plum nonetheless.

Steve seems to know what’s coming before Bucky does but it doesn’t matter; in his desperation, Bucky snatches it from Tony’s hand and before he even has the time to think _‘this feel’s weird’_ , he takes a bite and…

Shit.

It’s plastic.

Fuck you, Stark. _Fuck you_.

Bucky’s rage is uncontainable at this point. He doesn’t care that he still has an IV drip connected to him, he takes it out (gently, if that’s any consolation) and pushes Stark to the nearest wall. Steve, in the meanwhile, seems stuck in a state of shock, staring at the incident with wide eyes and an open mouth. “How dare you,” Bucky spits, teeth-bared.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa there, terminator. Don’t get angry; it’s only a little prank.”

“Do you think that this is a-“ Bucky’s rising voice is cut off by the panicking tremors of Steve’s own. “Buck, stop. It was just a joke. You’re still ill; you’ll regret it if you take this any further.”

“Will I?” Bucky argues, spitting.

“Yes.” At the words, the fight drains out of Bucky and he stumbles back to the bed, holding his head in his hands and choking out a laugh. “Oh my god,” he breathes out, half way to hysterics, “what the hell is going on with me?”

Steve dares let out a huff of a laugh. “It’s fine, you just need a little food is all.”

“Plum flavoured?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Is no one gonna ask how I am?” Tony interjects, shock still evident in the way his chest is pumping. “Seriously, terminator, first I get put in the fucking medical bay with a knife in my stomach - and you know how much I hate the medical bay - and now I’m getting threatened. Should I start calling you the plum-man or something. No, scrap that, that’s an awful name. What about Pluminator, that’s better-“

“Tony,” Steve interjects “stop.” Tony shuts up, for which they are thankful for. “We’ll talk about this later.” At the dismissal, Tony leaves, muttering endless strings of words that have little meaning together but make an overall sense that ‘no one in this tower has any sense of humour and they’re missing out’.

Steve sighs a sigh of relief and leans back in his chair, smiling mischievously at Bucky. “So, after all that, you want me to actually go get some food?”

 

 

Bucky’s finally released from the medical bay at 2pm on a Friday, only four hours before ‘team lunch’, in which they all sit in the actual _allocated_ dining room (no lab, no living room, the _actual_ dining room) to try and ‘talk’. It’s a fairly loose term and it may be more adept to say ‘arguing relentlessly’ but Steve likes it: it feels like, for the first time since he’s woken up, that he really has a family again.

Steve lets Bucky out himself, helping the nurses do some final checks before leading them back to the apartment where Steve has spent the last three hours cleaning to hide the never ending mess that has been piling up (Bucky accepted nothing but perfect cleanliness: something Steve could never quite attain).

They wash, dress, (clean again) and flop down on the sofa together. Steve’s said that they should put off food for now, knowing that the food tonight will be plenty enough for the both of them, even with the heightened appetites (even with the possibility that Bucky’s may all come back up), and is unwilling to waste any more food than necessary - an instinct, probably, from a time long forgotten.

“You know, I really never thought I could have this. The big house, the family, however unconventional it is. I always thought it was a distant…dream, I guess,” Steve admits, letting his head fall so its resting on Bucky’s right shoulder, comforted by flesh and not metal.

“Still haven’t got the wife or the kids yet though, have you, pal?” Bucky teases but there’s an edge to it, one that Steve can recognise with ease now, no matter how well the ex-assassin can hide his emotions. Bucky can’t give him any of those things, he knows. And that’s why…that’s why he doesn’t want any of them. He’s not afraid to voice that.

“Don’t need ‘em. I have a perfectly good man here, don’t I? One that can look after me whilst a stay at home and clean day in and day out to meet his expectations.” Bucky barks a laugh but doesn’t interrupt. “And kids…hmmm. Probably wouldn’t, even if I did have a wife,” Steve admits, “you don’t want kids with a profession like this. And anyway,” he adds, trying to add joviality to the conversation again, “they whine to much. Don’t think I could deal with that.” Bucky smiles gently and runs a hand down Steve’s shoulder and up again, a silent gesture of comfort. Steve leans in further and looks up at Buck, awkwardly leaning in until their lips just brush. Bucky smiles further and pulls Steve in, relishing in the feeling of it until-

“Mr Stark would like me to relay you a message, Captain, Sergeant. It states:” a recording starts of Tony’s voice “if you two aren’t too busy fucking, we’re starting up early.” Steve lets out a half laugh, half whine sound. “Guess that’s our call then,” Steve sighs, standing and holding a hand out for Bucky, pulling him to his feet.

They make their way to the dining hall and see the feast before them. All the members of the team are already sitting around the table, happily digging into whatever they can find: everything from Asian to African to European. Bucky sits down in the one place where there is a free seat next to him, motioning for Steve to join him and begins to eat before asking “Tony?”. Most people around the table shrug but Bruce pipes up as soon as he’s swallowed almost an entire bowl of rice in one go. “He’s coming, he’s just getting a little something ready.” The ominous statement doesn’t do anything to ease Bucky’s confusion but they eat and try and ignore the empty chair at the head of the table.

They’re almost all done with their portion of the main courses, even though half the table is still brimming with uneaten food (Steve probably has good reason to feel uncomfortable at the waste), when Tony storms in - all with same bravado as before - brandishing something that’s quite hard to determine when he’s holding it above his head, no matter how short he is.

“I have heard many a complaint from a certain person about a lack of a certain fruit and I decided, in the name of team spirit, to gift this to our own personal Pluminator - yeah, yeah, it’s the best I could come up with - a plum tart!” Tony’s arm swoops down and reveals a perfectly made plum tart with a sloppily written ‘to stop you from killing me’ in cream on the top. “Courtesy of Pepper’s brilliant baking and my amazing handwriting.” Despite the crude message, Bucky lights up and digs in with a usually unseen determination - with the exception of fighting - and doesn’t hesitate in complimenting Pepper on her amazing baking skills, to which she modestly blows him off.

Of course, there’s a fight over the last slice but what else did Steve expect? This is his family, he’s used to it by now.

 


End file.
